Pierre-Luc Dubois normally hates losing. He loses the hockey game, 7-2 against Pittsburgh, and that sucks. He loses his fight against Crosby, and that really sucks. He loses his dignity on the Pens' locker room floor, and... Maybe that doesn't suck as much as he thought it would.

“Inigo.” The young man took a measured breath. “Yes.” “You do realize what it will entail.” Another breath. “Yes.” “Nevertheless, let me remind you. Unless I release you to fulfill your civic duties and filial obligations, then—from the first evening bells till well after the sun rises in the morning—you’ll be mine and mine alone. I will own you. Your mouth, your groin, your delicate hole, your pleasure and your pain—all will be mine to indulge, to do with as I please. So I will ask again. Are you sure?” Inigo’s muscles flexed. “Yes.” He shivered again. “Master.”

“Geralt, it’s not what it looks like.” “Really?” he asked. He clenched his jaw before offering a sharp, mirthless smile. “Because it looks like you got caught fucking the mayor’s wife, and now I’m not getting paid!” “Well,” he laughed nervously, looking anywhere but up. “When you put it that way.” In which Jaskier suggests a chastity device to prove himself a worthy travel companion, and of course, gives Geralt the key.

AU in which Anakin is a prostitute on Coruscant, and a mechanic, with an arrangement with the clones. * Master Koon has heard of the young, Force-Sensitive human selling sex in the lower levels. More important, he's heard he dealt with the clones, who notoriously don't have any credits to pay with. And the young commander of his batallion needs to relax a bit...

“No one told me what prayers to recite,” Johnny forces out, trying to summon the well of anger that usually burns within him when he enters the church. “‘Spose they’re not used to trussin’ up somethin’ that can talk back.” Father Simon says nothing, his footsteps echoing out on the stone; growing louder as he approaches. “I can baa for ya if that’d make it more familiar,” he spits, some remnant of himself flaring and he strains his arms, struggling in vain against the ropes binding his wrists. He follows the hem of his robe as he circles him; his keen eyes heavy as they study the sigils on his skin until he finally comes to a stop behind him. He’s not even to see his death. Johnny curses himself as only now does grief come at being denied a final look into his eyes. Even now, you can’t help but chase sin.